Every Week
by The Fictionist Aura
Summary: "He visited her every week. If he could, he would visit her every other day. Maybe not every day. But often. Instead, he settled for weekly – partly to avoid Reese finding out and partly for his own sanity. " Post Season 2 Finale. How Root got to the psychiatric clinic. A bit of Rinch if you squint.


He visited her every week. If he could, he would visit her every other day. Maybe not every day. But often. Instead, he settled for weekly – partly to avoid Reese finding out and partly for his own sanity.

Finch had chosen an obscure medical clinic that preferred pre – modern medicine treatment rather than the shoveling of pills. Patients in the facility were fed well, monitored through camera surveillance and yet along to roam the campus if they please. There was always a staff member in eyesight of every patient regardless. He himself had been there at one point. For medical resources obviously. He had sent Miss Groves there in the vain hope she may recover. From what exactly, he hadn't the faintest idea. She had been mute for two months now. Wandering the various wards aimlessly, a few of the staff had told him, as he visited.

She would be guiding back to the psychiatric ward in the evening.

Around that time, Harold would have a car stationed three to five blocks away from the library and take his leave. By 6:30, he would be calmly waiting outside her room for her to be prepped. As he sat awkwardly with his hands in his lap, he thought back to what brought her here in the first place.

Reese had been a little more understanding than Shaw when he brought her along to the safe house after that…whole fiasco. In fact, he had a feeling that had Reese not been standing next to Finch as he wrapped a blanket around the female hacker; Shaw would have shot her dead. Out of instinct, he supposed. That he could understand. And he was still very grateful for her saving his life.

John, however, had been supporting, in his own way. He helped lift her into bed and later on, the ex – operative respected his wishes when Finch sent her to the clinic, all expenses paid for, rather than a prison. Reese understood Harold's need to preserve life – no matter who it was. They shared that – love for life.

"Mr. Robin, she's all ready for you," the nurse was smiling down at him, eyes filled with pity.

He nodded and she walked off in her pink scrubs, just as she did every week. The billionaire paused before getting up.

He often wondered what the point of these visits was. In the first 3 weeks, he had made friendly conservation with the woman. Surprisingly, he talked to her about his old coding days – things he knew she would appreciate. No critical information was exchanged, of course. Yet they were things that he could not share with Reese and perhaps some things he could share with Nathan or Caleb Phipps. He felt he owned her something.

_I trusted you._

She had sounded so broken. And he knew he was partially to blame for it. In truth, she had several large cracks in her soul from killing and who knew what else; her oldest one from a love struck librarian.

His lie had been the last straw and the young woman had crumbled. Miss Groves had turned into a vegetable. Indeed, she did not respond to him as he spoke for an hour about his various exploits. The only sign of life from her was her blinking, always robotic in nature. By the fourth week, his hope diminished at the thought of her recovering and he settled for just sitting in front of her for half an hour. He always left the clinic after these visits feeling terribly guilty.

There had been two occasions that she had done a motion outside of breathing, walking and sitting. The first was when he dropped her off at the hospital. He did it personally, only bringing one hired guard to help pushing Sam as she sat numbly in a wheelchair. As a member of the staff took her chair and began to wheel her into the facility, she turned her head and looked at him. Her wide eyes remained locked on his all the way under she turned a corner. It had left a bad taste in his mouth.

The second time she had acted somewhat human, he had not been there to witness it. But when he came in for his visit the second week, the personnel were quick to inform him on his 'sister' and her bizarre reaction to a laptop that a doctor carried into her room. She had leap out of her seat and dashed the laptop on the ground. Staff restrained her after she jumped on the device and gave her a calming agent. He paid for the laptop, of course.

'Has she had a bad experience with a laptop,' they asked and he simply said no. Because it was quite true, she hadn't.

Those two incidents were only sparks in the otherwise now dull life of Samantha Groves.

It was the eighth week he had come to visit and he took a small breath before entering her room. It was picturesque with pale blue walls and pastel colored decorations, made of plastic now thanks to the laptop episode. Similar to the fifth week, she was sitting on the bed, facing the lone window in her room. Her brown locks were in an elaborate bun style. A certain employee thoroughly enjoyed fashioning her hair, complimenting him on what lovely hair he had in his family. He wasn't sure how to reply.

Finch took the seat that had been prepped for him, by her bedside. She stayed where she was, zombie – like.

Today, John had found out. Or rather, confronted him on his visits to his local medical clinic that just happened to be the residence of Miss Groves.

"_Retiring for the day, Finch?"_

_He nodded. He was at the door when Reese spoke again._

"_How's your back?" His voice was softer than normal._

"_How it always is, Mr. Reese. Nothing different." He turned the handle_

"_Any reason why you're sneaking off to a medical clinic every week then?" His voice was much closer now. Finch could feel breath on his neck._

"_Just…checking."_

_A pause. "Not a good idea, Finch." _

"_It's nothing re-"_

"_It's not nothing. It's not healthy either."_

_Here, Harold turned his head to eye Reese. He had his soldier face on and it was clear John was not going to let this go on much longer._

"_I don't remember paying you to be my personal health adviser."_

"_Harold-"_

_He swallowed a sigh and opened the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Reese."_

The middle aged man adjusted his glasses on reflection of the memory. Today might be his last trip to the clinic. Because as stubborn as he could be, he saw the truth in John's words. It was not healthy to stare at a woman he suddenly felt responsible for wither away. It was not healthy to dwell on his failure to help her. It was not healthy to grieve for the lost of a brilliant mind, locked away on a shell of flesh and blood.

He gazed at her. Still staring out the window with wide unseeing eyes. Her mouth was ajar and her arms hanging wilted on her sides. Her chest rose and fell on a regular beat.

He sat looking at her for the next half hour. Even after his leg fell asleep.

**A/N: Another angst shot because feels. **


End file.
